


Between Convenience and Similarity of Taste

by Moonfreckle (Sunfreckle)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Cigarettes, First Kiss, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Making Out, Morning After, No Angst In This House, Patron-Minette - Freeform, Rated E because of chapter 5, References to violence here and there, Snarky snarky boys, Trans Montparnasse, not as fluffy as I usually write but I've been told it is still very soft (tm)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-02-01 19:09:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12711135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunfreckle/pseuds/Moonfreckle
Summary: Several short, but connected pieces exploring a 'casual' relationship between Montparnasse and Claquesous, both in their early twenties.It's basically just these two bitching at each other and making out. Because they know they have each other's backs, bitching is utterly unnavoidable and - for the time being - making out seems to work pretty well for them too.





	1. Better Than Cigarettes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mardisoir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardisoir/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Montparnasse's POV.

It’s strangely quiet outside on the street, that doesn’t happen too often in this neighbourhood. Montparnasse enjoys it like the rarity it is, but it clearly unsettles Claquesous. He’s fidgeting, getting up and sitting down, before roaming through the room again. Montparnasse looks up from his magazine, moving nothing but his eyes.

“Are you trying to quit smoking again?” he snarks.

Claquesous shoots him a dirty look and gives no reply. He’s picking at his nails.

“Stop that,” Montparnasse orders. “It’s a waste.”

“Of what,” Claquesous bites, striding over to the couch and letting himself fall down next to Montparnasse.

“Of good hands,” Montparnasse says matter-of-factly. He looks back at his glossy and turns the page. “I know you take care of your nails, don’t ruin them now.”

Claquesous stares at him for a moment with a dissatisfied look on his face.

Montparnasse smirks without looking up. “What?”

“You’re too damn pretty for your own good,” Claquesous grunts resentfully and he leans back with a frustrated sigh, stretching his legs out in front of him.

Montparnasse glances at him in amusement. He has closed his eyes, but somehow still looks ill-tempered. The corner of Montparnasse’s mouth twitches. Sometimes it seems like Claquesous has only two expressions, pleased and disgruntled, nothing in between. Maybe that’s why he hides his face so often. His voice can mimic every emotion, but his face can’t. Montparnasse puts down his reading and studies the way his friend’s long hair drapes around his face. Claquesous’ hands are resting on his knees, but he’s already pushing at the nail bed of his left thumb with his index finger again.

Montparnasse swats at his hand with the magazine.

Claquesous’ eyes fly open. “Lay off!” he snaps and he rips the thing from Montparnasse’s hands and throws it across the room.

“Stop ruining your nails,” Montparnasse insists and he grabs his hand and forces it down.

“You’re a jerk,” Claquesous grunts, pulling his hand free.

Montparnasse smirks at him. Claquesous looks annoyed, but still more pleased than disgruntled now. And all because of a little attention. Almost without thinking about it he leans forward and lets his lips touch Claquesous’.

Claquesous freezes and Montparnasse pulls away again.

His friend stares at him with shocked eyes. “What’d you do that for?” he asks roughly after a moment’s stunned silence.

What a stupid question. Because he felt like it. Montparnasse smirks slightly. “Want me to do it again?” he asks, ignoring the question.

There’s a moment of stillness, but then Claquesous gives the slightest inclination of the head.

Montparnasse kisses him again, with a little more conviction this time. It’s not like he’s never imagined doing this before. He tilts his head away just a little to see Claquesous face, but when he sees the look dawning in his eyes he grins and leans into him again. Montparnasse moves his lips against his and gently licks at his bottom lip until Claquesous begins to kiss back. Once he does, everything is easy. Effortless almost. Montparnasse feels Claquesous’ right hand slide into his hair as the other comes to rest on his shoulder, thumb at his throat, and he makes an appreciative noise and kisses him harder. Montparnasse grabs him by the front of his shirt and pulls him in a little closer still.

When they break apart Claquesous gasps for breath and gives Montparnasse a slightly bewildered look. His face is flushed.

“Well,” Montparnasse smirks. “That was overdue.”

“You’re-” Claquesous cuts himself off and runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. 

“What am I?” Montparnasse grins, leaning towards him again. “Better than cigarettes?”

Claquesous makes a scoffing noise and reaches out to pull him closer, but Montparnasse leans away, eyes gleaming provokingly.

“Tell me I’m better than cigarettes,” he coaxes.

“No,” Claquesous scoffs, pulling a face at him.

“No, you won’t tell me or no, I’m not better?” Montparnasse demands. “Cause I don’t care either way. Tell me.”

Claquesous gives him an incredulous grin. “Fine,” he says, almost rolling his eyes. “You’re better than cigare-”

Montparnasse cups his face and shuts his mouth with his own. He grins into the kiss and almost laughs when Claquesous mutters something no doubt insulting that completely loses any intelligibility as soon as it’s spoken. Montparnasse allows himself to be pushed back and only pretends to struggle when Claquesous pins him against the couch. He genuinely has no idea if his friend is ever going to want to do anything like this again, so they might as well have some fun with this now.


	2. The good, the bad and the dirty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for a prompt by Ren, who asked for montsous inspired by FOB's The Good, the Bad and the Dirty :)
> 
> Cw: implied criminal activity, physical violence, descriptions of blood/injury, treating said injury.

Claquesous’ glasses serve a purpose beyond shielding his expression from prying eyes. He likes the smoky filter they cast over the world. Without the brightness of colour he feels better able to distinguish other things. A minute difference that turns a nod from an agreement to a demand, a sharp edge to a seemingly genuine smile… The subtle little movements of the world are twice as bright with the saturation of its colours turned down.

There are the usual advantages too, of course. Claquesous doesn’t look like he’s watching the exchange across the street, but he is. His eyes have been fixed on Montparnasse ever since the man he’s speaking with approached him.

Montparnasse usually handles the first contact with new clients. He’s good at it. Very good. Silver-tongued and charming as he is, he has no problem working through the myriad of strings that come attached to doing business with the Patron-Minette while making the other party think they’re hardly even there. His pretty face doesn’t hurt either. Whether his looks are distracting to his new acquaintances or a reason for them to underestimate him, it works out in his favour either way.

The only reason Claquesous here, is to keep an eye on everything. If all goes well, the client will never even know he was there. He’s here exclusively to watch for signs of something going sour. The slight tipping back of a head in disagreement, the inching sideways of feet in search of surer footing, the twitch of fingers that comes with approaching anger, the subtle squaring of shoulders of people making themselves into adversaries.

Claquesous does not see any of these things.

The only thing he sees is Montparnasse’s hand lashing out and his palm connecting with the client’s chin with enough force to send the guy staggering backwards, screaming his head off.

Claquesous swears and he’s not the only one. He’s also not the only one that comes running to intervene. Which means he has to divert his attention away from Montparnasse for just a second too long to deal with this unwelcome new arrival.

Glass makes a very specific sound when it breaks against someone’s head.

…

“You and your goddamn temper,” Claquesous grunts, trying to tend to the cut on the back of Montparnasse’s head.

“The day that I let a piece of— _son of a bitch!_ ” Montparnasse cuts off his own sneering remarks with actual swears of pain and okay, maybe Claquesous isn’t as careful as he could have been. Because he can still feel the cold stab of panic when he saw Montparnasse stumble forward and drop to his knees and he’s not going to forget that for a while.

“Keep still and it won’t hurt as much,” he says snidely.

“You sound like Babet,” Montparnasse says, resentfully gripping the edge of the kitchen counter in an effort to keep still.

They are standing by the sink, the tap running nearly scalding hot and a rather battered first aid kit opened up on the counter next to it. Claquesous has never been here before, Montparnasse’s own place. The place where he goes when he’s not staying at Babet’s. They all have other places to disappear to when they need to, but Montparnasse is by far the one most keen on his privacy. He calls Babet’s house ‘the boarding school’ and it’s not unusual for him to leave in the middle of the night, muttering darkly about not being able to breathe.

Montparnasse winces and Claquesous instinctually hums something pacifying. He follows it with a snide: “Be grateful it doesn’t need stitches.”

Stitches would mean going to Babet, who is pissed at them both right now. First of all for fucking up the meeting, second for coming here instead of to his. Which Claquesous is inclined to agree with right now – with a sink full of watered down blood and Montparnasse making whimpering sounds as soon as he even _smells_ the disinfectant – but Montparnasse insisted and Claquesous wasn’t going to tell him no. Not under those circumstances.

The cut is clean and it doesn’t actually look that bad now it’s stopped bleeding. Claquesous has had worse. Montparnasse has probably had worse. Montparnasse’s hair is matted together because of the blood though.

“Do you have a comb or something,” Claquesous grunts, dropping the piece of gauze in the sink and starting to scrub his hands clean.

“For what?” Montparnasse winces turning his head left to right.

“There’s glass in your hair, and _gunk_.”

“Ugh.” Montparnasse walks out of the tiny kitchen and Claquesous follows him into a bedroom that is predictably tidy and minimalistic. There’s a book on his nightstand, but it’s lying at an angle and Claquesous can’t look at it without being obvious.

Montparnasse opens a closet door, makes a vague sound and leaves the room. Claquesous glances at the nightstand again. Madame Bovary. Well…

Montparnasse comes back with a comb and a towel. He tosses the comb at Claquesous, who catches it instinctually. “Nice place,” he sneers. “Cosy.”

“I’ve seen your fucking mess of a hideout,” Montparnasse bites back. “You can fuck right off.”

Claquesous grins. If Montparnasse is getting mouthy again already, he’ll be fine. “Touchy,” he smirks.

Montparnasse makes an angry jerking motion with his head and winces immediately.

“Moron,” Claquesous snorts. He sits down on the edge of the bed and waves the comb at Montparnasse.

With a sullen roll of his eyes Montparnasse sits down next to him and bows his head.

Claquesous pulls the towel out of his hands and starts brushing Montparnasse’s hair as carefully as he can.

“Good hit by the way,” he hums.

“Should have gone for his nose,” Montparnasse grunts. He has closed his eyes and he doesn’t wince or groan when Claquesous combs through the wet hair closer to the wound. Maybe because Claquesous is actually being careful now. A little overly careful perhaps. A little slow too, tugging softly on dark locks that really don’t need cleaning, long after he has wiped the last blood on the towel. But Montparnasse doesn’t say a thing. So Claquesous doesn’t stop.

Through the open door, probably coming from the kitchen, there’s the shrill ping of a phone receiving several messages.

Neither of them moves.

Let Babet wait.


	3. All Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several week later, Claquesous' POV

Claquesous opens his eyes and casts a groggy look towards the ceiling. He’s too warm. With drowsy, uncoordinated movements he pushes at his duvet. There’s a vague noise of disagreement beside him and the moment of confusion lasts long enough to wake Claquesous up properly. Montparnasse is lying beside him. In his bed. Claquesous stares at him for a moment, because it’s not really a sight he had ever counted on seeing. His friend is lying on his stomach, his handsome face half-obscured by his pillow, dark hair a tussled, nearly curly mess. Claquesous is keenly aware of the fact that he’s responsible for the state of Montparnasse’s usually perfect locks and it’s genuinely weirding him out. All of this is weird. Really weird. But, he decides, not necessarily a _bad_ weird. He sits up, pushing the covers away completely.

“Mm,” Montparnasse groans and he blindly reaches back with his hand to pull the duvet back up.

Claquesous gets out of bed and gives the covers an indifferent tug, back on top of Montparnasse. How he can be cold is beyond him, but whatever. His muscles protest slightly when he straightens up and Claquesous grins. Yeah, okay, last night was good.

He snorts at the sight of Montparnasse’s clothes, that he still managed to leave draped somewhat neatly across a chair instead of strewn around like Claquesous’. When he walks past his mirror, however, his face falls. “Fucking hell,” he curses.

There’s a low chuckle from the bed and Claquesous turns around to see that while Montparnasse hasn’t moved, he has opened his eyes and is looking at him with decidedly smug amusement.

“You have a bloody oral fixation, mate,” Claquesous grunts, gesturing at the bruises scattered across his neck and shoulders.

“I don’t remember you complaining,” Montparnasse smirks and he pushes himself up on his elbows a little.

Claquesous scoffs and walks back to the bed, looking down on his friend while Montparnasse gives him an obnoxious grin and adds significantly:

“Quite the opposite in fact…”

The way he moves his lips gives Claquesous some very vivid flashbacks. “You’re as loud-mouthed now as you were last night,” he snarks and before Montparnasse can give a witty reply, he leans over and presses two fingers firmly into the back of Montparnasse’s neck.

Montparnasse groans and drops face-down back into his pillow, letting his arms give out under him.

Claquesous grins. “That’ll come in handy,” he says, lowering his voice darkly. If Montparnasse thought that he wasn’t going to rub the fact that he now knows how fast Montparnasse's cocky dominance melts away in the face of some well-applied pressure, he is sorely mistaken.

“Fuck you,” Montparnasse grunts into the pillow.

“What was that?” Claquesous smirks and he leans towards Montparnasse, grabbing him by his hair and pulling slightly.

Montparnasse follows the movement, lifting his head up off the pillow again and tilting his face so he can glare at Claquesous.

For a moment Claquesous hesitates. Maybe Montparnasse meant this to be a one-time thing. It’s not like they took the time to discuss stuff like that last night. Montparnasse is still scowling and his expressions, ever subtle on his liar’s face, are difficult enough to read under normal circumstances. Right now Claquesous is really not sure. Just when he’s about to release Montparnasse’s hair from his grip, Montparnasse smirks and drawls:

“You’re all talk.”

His teeth graze his bottom lip for just a second and Claquesous _knows_ he’s doing that on purpose. Knowing each other’s weaknesses goes both ways, of course. With a smirk of his own he pulls Montparnasse’s head back some more, forcing him to arch his back to raise his chest off the bed, and presses their mouths together.

Claquesous is vaguely aware that this is the first time he’s initiated a kiss. It’s always been Montparnasse that started that sort of stuff the past few weeks. Even counting last night, he was never the one in charge of the kisses. Turns out he’s better at initiation…other things.

Montparnasse must be thinking along the same lines, because he’s grinning into the kiss and trying to take over, despite the rather constricting position Claquesous is keeping him in. And Claquesous isn’t going to let go either. He has his other hand leveraged against the wall now and he’s rather interested in how long Montparnasse will be able to keep this up. Montparnasse let’s out a muffled swear and kisses him back even harder. Claquesous has just enough attention left over for coherent thought to conclude that this is what makes this so good. He knows he won’t hurt Montparnasse, not a chance. If he did anything at all that his friend didn’t agree with, he’d hear about it. _Immediately_. The reverse is true as well of course. And there’s no need to worry about managing expectations, of any kind, on either side. They know each other too well not to know what to expect. No surprises.

Montparnasse makes a rather weak keening sound at the back of his throat and Claquesous grins. Well, maybe a few surprises.

He has to pay for showing his amusement, because Montparnasse breaks out of the kiss with a grunt and pulls free of Claquesous grip. He sits up on his knees, letting the duvet slide off him completely. For a moment he stares at Claquesous, his eyes darkened and his lips slightly swollen, before grabbing his face and pulling him towards him again. Claquesous lets go of the wall and plants his knees in the mattress as well, sacrificing their height difference in the process.

“What was that about talk?” he mutters amusedly, nipping at Montparnasse’s bottom lip.

“Still talking now, aren’t you,” Montparnasse sneers.

Claquesous responds by grabbing Montparnasse by his shoulders and pushing him out of his sitting position and down on the bed, on his back this time. Maybe Montparnasse needs reminding that _he_ was the vocal one yesterday.

“ _Christ_ , didn’t you have enough of this nonsense last night?”

With something that can only described as a snarl Claquesous sits up and turns towards the door. He didn’t hear it open, but Babet is standing in the doorway, face full of irritable impatience.

“Get your paws off each other and get dressed,” he orders. “We have work to do.”

Montparnasse is still lying back and only raised his head enough to glare at him. “Come back in an hour.”

“It’s past bloody noon,” Babet scoffs. “You get your asses downstairs in ten minutes or I’m sending Gueul up.”

“Fuck off,” Claquesous spits.

“Ten minutes,” Babet repeats, turning away. “And you look like a bloody leopard.”

He slams the door behind him and the nettled silence that follows is broken by a chuckle from Montparnasse. “It suits you,” he says, reaching out to touch one of the spots he left on Claquesous neck.

Claquesous swats his hand away with a resentful look and gets off the bed. He doesn’t think Gueulemer will let Babet send him up to fetch them, but he’s not exactly willing to risk it either. And it’s not like the mood hasn’t been thoroughly killed already. He grabs his clothes off the floor.

“Want to borrow one of my scarves?” Montparnasse asks innocently, sitting up in bed with an effortless grace that kind of pisses Claquesous off.

“Get out of my bed,” he orders, throwing Montparnasse’s binder at his face.

“Cranky,” Montparnasse smirks, dodging it easily. He gets out of bed and gathers his clothes, but clearly not with the intention of putting them on. Claquesous should have known he’d refuse to wear the same clothes again.

“Ten minutes,” Montparnasse scoffs. “I’m taking a shower first.”

“Hm,” Claquesous hums, putting on his sunglasses. He’s nearly dressed already.

Montparnasse walks past him, in his boxers and with his shirt draped loosely across his shoulders. At the door he looks back at Claquesous. “Babet’s going to be a jerk about this, isn’t he?” he grins.

“Clearly,” Claquesous replies indifferently. Babet won’t really give a shit though, he’s just going to be an ass about them being loud or whatever.

Montparnasse’s grin widens into obnoxious territory. “Gueul’s going to try and pretend it didn’t happen.”

Claquesous snorts. “Well I’m not wearing any fucking scarves, so he’ll have to pretend to be blind.”

Montparnasse’s eyes spark with mean-spirited pleasure. “Don’t go down before me,” he demands, stepping out into the hallway with a little more activity than before. “I’m not missing that.”

“Then don’t take too long primping in the damn shower,” Claquesous calls after him.

Montparnasse flips him off without looking back and Claquesous slams his door with a smirk on his face. He’s done being weirded out, at least for the time being. Montparnasse doesn’t act any different so he won’t either. Plus, anything that lets him blow off steam and get on Babet and Gueulemer’s nerves at the same time is a good thing as far as Claquesous is concerned. He glances in the mirror and frowns. He’s does look like a damn leopard. Well, he’ll make Montparnasse pay for that next time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea if I'll write more of this, I wasn't even going to write a second part to begin with. But I did, and it's dedicated to Mardisor for their encouragement and general awesomeness <3


	4. Mirrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cw: just a _little_ bit of blood.
> 
> Edit: this chapter has a smutty ending that I cut, but that two kind friends were so supportive of that I decided to upload it anyway. This is the non-explicit version, chapter 4 is the same chapter again but _with_ the explicit ending. So take your pick :P

Montparnasse is still cursing by the time they get back. Claquesous follows him upstairs, making no attempt to contradict him. Montparnasse is hot-headed, but he doesn’t lose his temper like this often. When he does, it’s no use trying to calm him down.

“This was a new _fucking_ shirt and this was supposed to be nothing but a bloody _drop-off_.”

Claquesous lingers in the doorway of Montparnasse’s room, leaning against the doorpost. He’s angry too, but he knows there’s no use.

With sharp, resentful movements Montparnasse takes off his shirt and snarls at the bloodstains on the front. It’s not much and most of it’s not even his, but _some_ of it is. “Sodding amateurs,” he spits. “We should have made them pay.”

“Yeah,” Claquesous hums philosophically. “I think we _did_. Look-” He pushes away from the door and takes a tentative step into the room. “We got the money and Gueul straight up punched that big one’s lights out, so what more do you want to do?”

Montparnasse turns around with fire twisting in his eyes. “I want to burn the fucking place _down_.”

Claquesous regards him quietly for a moment and then, without taking his eyes off Montparnasse’s face, he pulls out his lighter and tosses it in his direction.

Montparnasse catches it by reflex, taken by surprise.

“Let’s go back then,” Claquesous offers blankly. “Burn it down.”

For a moment Montparnasse weighs the lighter in his hand like he’s actually considering it. And Claquesous _almost_ wishes he’ll demand to go through with it. Almost. But not quite.

“Not fucking worth it,” Montparnasse grunts and he tosses the lighter back to Claquesous.

He catches it with a  slight smirk and puts it back in his pocket. Probably just as well. Babet would be royally pissed off if they went back. He and Gueulemer still haven’t returned by the way. Claquesous would wonder what’s keeping them, but Montparnasse is taking off his belt and shoes and he’s suddenly a little distracted.

“Bunch of cunts,” Montparnasse mutters, holding still in front of his tall mirror and turning his head side to side to inspect the damage. His lip is swollen and there’s still blood in the corner of his mouth.

“Should have known that was what you’re most upset about,” Claquesous grins lazily, slowly walking up behind Montparnasse. “They marked your pretty face.”

Montparnasse lifts his eyes, glaring at Claquesous via his reflection in the mirror. Claquesous steps even closer and the glare falters. There is something oddly aesthetic about the bad lighting, the reflection in the glass and red stains on Montparnasse’s mouth. Claquesous reaches out and puts two fingers to Montparnasse’s chin to tilt his head up. Montparnasse moves, but doesn’t break eye contact. Neither does Claquesous.

Slowly he directs Montparnasse to turn his head first to the right and then to the left and the elegant stretch of Montparnasse’s neck almost makes him grin. Montparnasse is a show off. Claquesous likes that though. And he likes looking at him like this. Half-undressed, pale skin, dark hair, dark clothes. With a smirk Claquesous considers that Montparnasse probably resents the fact that his binder isn’t dark enough to match his trousers, but Claquesous isn’t quite so picky. He lets his hands slide down a little, fingers brushing past Montparnasse’s throat. By now he’s learned Montparnasse doesn’t mind it if he indulges himself a little in that quarter. Not at all in fact. Claquesous slyly presses two fingers into the hollow between Montparnasse’s clavicles, making him lean back until Montparnasse’s back touches his chest. As soon as Claquesous feels Montparnasse’s weight against him, he curls his fingers loosely around Montparnasse’s throat to keep him there. His other hand finds its way to Montparnasse’s hip, placed _just_ too low to touch any skin, for now. Tonight was a shit show. He’d like to end it better than it began.

There’s an a mused glint in Montparnasse’s eyes that makes a very fine contrast with the anger that was dancing in them only a couple of moments ago. One of his eyebrows raises just enough to be noticeable. That is either an invitation or a challenge.

Claquesous grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to contain actual smut but I got cold feet.  
> I just wanted to write about Parnasse being pissed off and mirrors tbh~


	5. Mirrors (E)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smutty version of the last chapter.
> 
> Débora, thank you for your coaxing, Adrian, thank you for your proofreading and thank you _both_ for being kind and encouraging.
> 
> Cw: a little blood, explicit sexual content, slight choking, slight sub/dom play (I think??).

Montparnasse is still cursing by the time they get back. Claquesous follows him upstairs, making no attempt to contradict him. Montparnasse is hot-headed, but he doesn’t lose his temper like this often. When he does, it’s no use trying to calm him down.

“This was a new _fucking_ shirt and this was supposed to be nothing but a bloody _drop-off_.”

Claquesous lingers in the doorway of Montparnasse’s room, leaning against the doorpost. He’s angry too, but he knows there’s no use.

With sharp, resentful movements Montparnasse takes off his shirt and snarls at the bloodstains on the front. It’s not much and most of it’s not even his, but _some_ of it is. “Sodding amateurs,” he spits. “We should have made them pay.”

“Yeah,” Claquesous hums philosophically. “I think we _did_. Look-” He pushes away from the door and takes a tentative step into the room. “We got the money and Gueul straight up punched that big one’s lights out, so what more do you want to do?”

Montparnasse turns around with fire twisting in his eyes. “I want to burn the fucking place _down_.”

Claquesous regards him quietly for a moment and then, without taking his eyes off Montparnasse’s face, he pulls out his lighter and tosses it in his direction.

Montparnasse catches it by reflex, taken by surprise.

“Let’s go back then,” Claquesous offers blankly. “Burn it down.”

For a moment Montparnasse weighs the lighter in his hand like he’s actually considering it. And Claquesous _almost_ wishes he’ll demand to go through with it. Almost. But not quite.

“Not fucking worth it,” Montparnasse grunts and he tosses the lighter back to Claquesous.

He catches it with a  slight smirk and puts it back in his pocket. Probably just as well. Babet would be royally pissed off if they went back. He and Gueulemer still haven’t returned by the way. Claquesous would wonder what’s keeping them, but Montparnasse is taking off his belt and shoes and he’s suddenly a little distracted.

“Bunch of cunts,” Montparnasse mutters, holding still in front of his tall mirror and turning his head side to side to inspect the damage. His lip is swollen and there’s still blood in the corner of his mouth.

“Should have known that was what you’re most upset about,” Claquesous grins lazily, slowly walking up behind Montparnasse. “They marked your pretty face.”

Montparnasse lifts his eyes, glaring at Claquesous via his reflection in the mirror. Claquesous steps even closer and the glare falters. There is something oddly aesthetic about the bad lighting, the reflection in the glass and red stains on Montparnasse’s mouth. Claquesous reaches out and puts two fingers to Montparnasse’s chin to tilt his head up. Montparnasse moves, but doesn’t break eye contact. Neither does Claquesous.

Slowly he directs Montparnasse to turn his head first to the right and then to the left and the elegant stretch of Montparnasse’s neck almost makes him grin. Montparnasse is a show off. Claquesous likes that though. And he likes looking at him like this. Half-undressed, pale skin, dark hair, dark clothes. With a smirk Claquesous considers that Montparnasse probably resents the fact that his binder isn’t dark enough to match his trousers, but Claquesous isn’t quite so picky. He lets his hand slide down a little, fingers brushing past Montparnasse’s throat. By now he’s learned Montparnasse doesn’t mind it if he indulges himself a little in that quarter. Not at all in fact. Claquesous slyly presses two fingers into the hollow between Montparnasse’s clavicles, making him lean back until Montparnasse’s back touches his chest. As soon as Claquesous feels Montparnasse’s weight against him, he curls his fingers loosely around Montparnasse’s throat to keep him there. His other hand finds its way to Montparnasse’s hip, placed _just_ too low to touch any skin, for now. Tonight was a shit show. He’d like to end it better than it began.

There’s an amused glint in Montparnasse’s eyes that makes a very fine contrast with the anger that was dancing in them only a couple of moments ago. One of his eyebrows raises just enough to be noticeable. That is either an invitation or a challenge.

Claquesous grins. “Looks rather good on you, that,” he says darkly, still staring into the mirror, but his eyes moving from Montparnasse’s eyes to his mouth for a moment.

Montparnasse doesn’t reply, he just looks, a silent smirk in his eyes. Claquesous lets the grin slide off his lips and tightens his grip on Montparnasse’s throat. His friend’s lips part involuntarily in a nearly soundless gasp.

That’s what Claquesous wanted to see. He likes the look of this even better. Montparnasse has such pretty lips. Slowly he raises his other hand to Montparnasse’s face and gently touches his mouth, carefully tracking his own movement in the mirror image. Montparnasse opens his mouth a little further, slowly enough to still seem involuntary, but just a little too eager. Claquesous traces his bottom lip with his middle finger and feels a thrill of excitement when he realises that Montparnasse is _watching_ him do it. His eyes are following his every movement.

Claquesous lets his hand slide down past Montparnasse’s chin and almost smiles when he feels the silent disagreement in the tension in Montparnasse’s shoulders. That fades when he drags his nails lightly down across his stomach though. Now there’s a different tension in Montparnasse’s body and Claquesous _likes_ this game. He moves his hand up and then down again, tracing over every bit of exposed skin with this fingertips on the way up and his nails on the way down and relishes the increasingly darkened look in Montparnasse’s eyes as he eagerly follows every movement.

It’s not until Claquesous lets his hand travel all the way down and Montparnasse lowers his head a little as well as his gaze, that Claquesous realizes he has nearly forgotten about the hand at Montparnasse’s throat. He waits for Montparnasse to move his head again, but as soon as he does he gives a sudden squeeze with his fingers. Montparnasse gulps and tilts his head back until it nearly rests against Claquesous’s shoulder. His ear is right by Claquesous’ mouth.

“That’s better,” Claquesous mutters against his skin. “Now watch.”

“You or me?” Montparnasse asks and there is certainly something defiant about his tone, but there is far too much lust in his voice to be truly sneering.

“You of course,” Claquesous smirks. “Are you capable of doing anything else in front of a mirror?”

Montparnasse scoffs, but sucks in his breath when Claquesous lets his hand drop lower and starts rubbing him through his trousers.

Claquesous knows what he can do to Montparnasse. He’s seen him bite and suck his lip, seen his pale cheeks flush and his eyes darken with lust before rolling back in indulgent pleasure.  This time he wants _Montparnasse_ to see all that. Slowly, carefully, he puts enough pressure between Montparnasse’s legs to make him want to lean forward and when he does, Claquesous increases the pressure on his throat. Not too much, just enough make Montparnasse gasp again. By now Montparnasse’s body is pressed flush against Claquesous’ and with one hand at his throat and the other between his legs Claquesous has as much control over him as he needs to have. The hand at his throat he keeps steady, the one between his legs is cupping, squeezing and stroking by turns, almost making Montparnasse twist his hips and arch his back.

“Tease,” he growls, pushing back against Claquesous in retaliation.

Claquesous tuts and undoes the buttons of Montparnasse’s trousers with remarkable little difficulty considering he only has one hand to do it. He always did have clever fingers.

Montparnasse groans when Claquesous teases the skin just above his boxers and Claquesous watches in the mirror how his eyes close. He’s about to give a punishing squeeze in Montparnasse’s throat when Montparnasse let out another keening sound and sucks in his bottom lip. The sight of Montparnasse with his eyes half closed, his top lip swollen and just a touch bloody, his teeth biting down on the very edge of his bottom lip and Claquesous’ own hand curled round his throat, is enough to make Claquesous forget about his game for a moment. His blood is rushing and now he knows just playing a little won’t be enough. He removes his hand from where his fingers were just about to dip under the elastic of Montparnasse’s boxers and Montparnasse looks up abruptly. He opens his mouth in disagreement, but Claquesous smirks and says:

“If you wanted something to suck on you should have said.” And before Montparnasse can speak he pushes two fingers into his mouth.

Montparnasse makes a slightly too eager sound at the back of his throat and pushes Claquesous’ fingers apart with his tongue. “You’re so full of shit,” he drawls, just about able to make himself understood.

With a grin Claquesous presses down on his tongue a little and Montparnasse starts sucking on his fingers, plump lips closing around them. Claquesous lets out a soft laugh and Montparnasse lifts up his eyes, their gazes meeting in the mirror. Claquesous smirks and holds Montparnasse’s gaze as he feels the hot wetness of his mouth. Montparnasse stares at him and Claquesous makes sure he’s still looking at him when he tightens his grip around Montparnasse’s throat again and pulls his fingers from his mouth. A breathy sigh escapes from Montparnasse’s lips that turns to a keening whimper when Claquesous quickly slips his hand into his boxers and lets his wet fingers slide between his legs. Montparnasse moves his body forward involuntarily and Claquesous doesn’t stop him.

“Hands,” he says roughly and Montparnasse plants his hands on the mirror, touching his own reflection and groaning as Claquesous touches him.

A moment ago his eyes were still looking into Claquesous’, but now his gaze has dropped.

“Eyes front,” Claquesous orders and the grey eyes hastily dart up again.

Claquesous dips his fingers deeper between Montparnasse’s thighs, wetting them further, and Montparnasse swallows thickly. “ _Fuck_ -” he breathes, struggling to keep his position.

There’s a fascinated grin on Claquesous face that doesn’t quite leave him anymore. Montparnasse’s hands on the mirror are moving as if he is trying to grab hold of his own reflection and there is a frantic movement in his body that suggests he is torn between wanting to twist free of Claquesous’ grip and staying exactly where he is. Claquesous moves his fingers in an unhurried search for weak spots he knows are there. He finds one and Montparnasse’s legs nearly give out. The cry that tumbles from his lips burns on Claquesous’ skin and he speeds up.

This time Montparnasse’s fingers squeak on the glass and Claquesous has to release his throat to steady Montparnasse with an arm across his chest.

“ _Eyes_ ,” he growls as soon as Montparnasse let’s his head drop down.

“Fuck…you…” Montparnasse groans, but nevertheless he lifts his head and stares up into Claquesous’ eyes.

Claquesous can see the frenzied energy behind the glittering grey, he can feel the heat pooling between Montparnasse’s legs, all he has to do is decide whether to push him over the edge or not.

Montparnasse’s eye open wide for a moment and _god_ he’s pretty. He’s looking roughed up and ravished and Claquesous wants him to scream looking like this. There’s one weak spot he hasn’t touched yet.

For a single moment Montparnasse’s breath locks in his chest and he’s completely quiet, then he really does scream. Before the strangled cries have properly left his throat Claquesous has him turned around and pressed with his back up against the mirror. Montparnasse’s legs are barely able to support him and he actually wraps his arms around Claquesous’ neck for support as Claquesous hastily works open his jeans. Montparnasse shudders.

“Bed,” he gulps. “ _Please_ -”

It’s the first time Claquesous has _ever_ heard him beg.

With a grin he grabs Montparnasse round the waist and turns them both around, steering them towards Montparnasse’s bed. He’s already forgotten how this night even began.


	6. Saturday Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Adrian <3

“What the _hell_ was that.” Montparnasse’s breath stings in his lungs and he can taste his own blood between his teeth.

Claquesous lets out a rough laugh, leaning against the emergency door of the building they just cut through to get away. “Unforeseen circumstances,” he breathes, tipping his head back.

Montparnasse glares at him, his heart still racing and the adrenaline in his system burning his skin from the inside out now the sudden moment of physical exertion is past. Claquesous looks a dishevelled, beaten-on mess and Montparnasse knows he does too. Admittedly, the other guys are worse off, much worse. But none of this had been exactly their plan for the evening. At least it sure as hell hadn’t been Montparnasse’s. Not tonight.

Claquesous is still laughing, pushing his hair out of his face and ineffectively trying to fix his crooked sunglasses. They’re broken. It’s a miracle he didn’t lose them. Not that Claquesous seems to care all that much right now, which is highly unusual.

Montparnasse wonders if his friend is drunker than he thought he was. They had barely arrived before the fight broke out though, he can’t have had more than a drink or two. Fuck, his ears are ringing for no goddamn reason. The pent-up energy in his chest makes him want to laugh, but he settles for swearing instead and grits his teeth. “What the fuck happened back there?”

Claquesous pushes away from the door, takes his battered glasses off and gives Montparnasse an unapologetic, downright _satisfied_ look. The tension Montparnasse is used to seeing locked in his shoulders is noticeable absent. Claquesous lets his head slant to the side and shrugs, a corner of his mouth crooking upward into half a grin.

“You started that shit on _purpose_ ,” Montparnasse bristles. Of course he fucking did. “And you have the gall to bitch about _my_ temper.”

Claquesous’ grin widens and the way his ripped shirt exposes his collar bones is doing something odd to the anger twisting in Montparnasse’s insides. “Couldn’t be helped.”

“And why the fuck would that be,” Montparnasse demands and he’s trying to stay pissed, because Claquesous deserves an elbow in the ribs for making him run like that. For making him ruin a good outfit. For looking so annoyingly good surrounded by unflattering street light and grey concrete.

The complete unconcern on Claquesous’ face is infuriatingly attractive. “It’s Saturday night?” he offers, his voice drawling just a little.

Montparnasse stares at him – at the bruise starting to colour on his cheek, at the indulgent glitter in his dark eyes – and gives up.

“Fucker,” he grunts, spitting the blood out of his mouth and grabbing Claquesous by his torn shirt.

Before Claquesous can react Montparnasse shoves him hard against the concrete wall and shuts his mouth with an aggressive kiss. Claquesous freezes for a startled second before eagerly grabbing at Montparnasse’s hips. He’s still holding his glasses though and Montparnasse swats them out of his hand impatiently, following the scattering sound on the floor with his foot and bringing his heel down hard, crushing them under his boot.

Claquesous makes an angry noise at the back of his throat and Montparnasse pulls back just a little.

“Fuck you,” he deadpans and he works his knee between Claquesous’ legs, immediately muffling the resulting groan with his tongue.

Claquesous finally kisses him back hard enough for Montparnasse to have something to fight against and he pins him against the wall, biting sharply at his bottom lip. They struggle against each other for as long as they can do without proper breathing and finally break apart with a gasp on Claquesous’ part and a greedy gulp of air on Montparnasse’s. The look in Claquesous eyes is wonderfully dark and that self-satisfied grin is still lurking in the corners of his mouth. Honestly, if this is what a night out can do for him, Montparnasse would have dragged him out sooner.

He throws his head back, taking in another gulp of air before curling the fingers of his left hand around the waistband of Claquesous’ jeans and dragging him a little more away from the door. Further along the wall, away from the lights and into the shadows. As soon as Claquesous makes the slightest movement indicating he might want to make them switch places, Montparnasse traps him against the wall again, rolling his hips against Claquesous’.

“Alright, fuck—” Claquesous groans in surrender and Montparnasse smirks, leaning forward to bring his mouth closer to his neck. Claquesous pointedly _doesn’t_ move his head, so Montparnasse grabs a handful of his long hair and yanks it aside, letting the half-swallowed moan this earns him slide electrically down his spine. He twists his fingers in firmly and tastes Claquesous’ skin.

“Next time you want to wail on someone instead of dance, let me take you to a club I _don’t_ like,” he orders, kissing down Claquesous’ neck until he feels his pulse under his lips.

“You _like_ that place?” Claquesous pants. One of his hands is roaming down Montparnasse’s back, grabbing at his clothes in an attempt to get access to bare skin, and even though there is more than enough hunger in his voice to mirror those touches, there is a sharp edge of amusement too. “You have _terrible_ taste.”

Montparnasse shuts him up by roughly pulling on the strap of his belt, undoing the buckle. “Clearly,” he grunts and he sinks his teeth into Claquesous’ neck.


	7. Sleepless

Staring at the dark gets old very quickly. Montparnasse can’t sleep and he’s getting restless. He presses the palms of his hands against his eyes for a second and then he reaches out and drags his phone towards him. 3:34 am. He can either decide to just not sleep or he can get up and go somewhere else. That helps sometimes. If he can’t sleep in one place, he can sleep in another…

Sneaking out of Babet’s house is as much second nature as it was to sneak out of his parents’. Montparnasse can do it on instinct, he doesn’t need to stop to listen or to put his feet down carefully. Outside Claquesous’ room he does stop, though. There’s light coming out from under the door. Claquesous sleeps in total darkness, so he must still be awake.

On impulse Montparnasse tries the doorhandle, but the door is locked. He listens for a conflicted moment and is about to move away when he hears movement inside. The lock clicks and the door opens.

Claquesous is wearing his pyjama’s, but it’s obvious he never went to bed. He has his headphones around his neck. He gives Montparnasse a questioning look for about half a second before stepping aside to let him come in. He closes the door behind him, gently, and turns around to look at him.

“Can’t sleep,” Montparnasse says, like that wasn’t obvious.

Claquesous nods. “You can crash here if you’re doing your different beds thing,” he says, stretching his arms above his head as he walks back to his desk.

Montparnasse hadn’t quite expected that. He considers it for a moment and then starts to shrug out of the clothes he just hastily put on. To be honest he could do without the walk through the cold night. This will do just as well. He strips down to his shirt and boxers, folding the pieces of discarded pieces clothing to put them aside.

Claquesous glances back at him, one side of his earphones on askew so he can still hear. “Were you going home?” he asks.

“Hm,” Montparnasse hums, letting himself fall down onto Claquesous’ bed. He draws up his legs but doesn’t lie down. Instead he leans against the wall, which is cold even through his t-shirt, and watched Claquesous work. He’s editing some video thing. Montparnasse has never actually watched Claquesous work on one of his strange personal projects before. He seems completely zoned out, but apparently he’s not, because after a while he says, without looking away from his screen:

“Having fun staring?”

Montparnasse snorts and gets up again. Barefooted his steps are near soundless and Claquesous clearly didn’t expect him to move this fast, because he starts a little when Montparnasse comes to lean on the back of his chair.

There’s a strange, flickering collage of mildly horrific images on the screen. If moving images can make a collage that is. Montparnasse can just hear a low, faint beat coming from Claquesous’ headphones and he can just about imagine the edited clips moving to the same rhythm. It’s kind of entrancing.

“What are you making?” he asks, blinking slowly at the screen.

Claquesous glances up at him. “You’re really are bad at this whole sleeping thing,” he remarks drily.

“Did you even _try_ to sleep,” Montparnasse retorts, moving his hand from the back of Claquesous’ chair to his shoulder.

“No," Claquesous deadpans. "Or I’d be asleep." But even so he tilts his head just a little when Montparnasse traces a line up his neck.

And Montparnasse is tired, but not tired enough. He wishes he was. “Put me to sleep then,” he says, letting something suggestive slip under his tongue. “Tire me out.”

Claquesous glances up at him again, appraisingly, and reaches out. Instead of grabbing hold of Montparnasse, he pulls a second chair towards the desk, shaking off the random mess of clothes that was on it before and letting it fall indifferently to the floor. He makes a subtle motion with his head and Montparnasse sits down in surprise. He wasn’t—

Without a word, Claquesous unearths a second pair of headphones and a splitter from the pile of rubble on his desk. He plugs them in and offers the second – clearly inferior – pair of headphones to Montparnasse. He still doesn’t say anything and his expression is _nearly_ blank, but not quite. Montparnasse takes the headphones and puts them on, wincing slightly as a cascade of high notes he couldn’t hear before slide down his spine. A vague grin slides past Claquesous’ face and he turns his attention back to his screen. He falls back into his rhythm of editing immediately. The slow taps of his fingers on the keyboard and the clicks of his mouse nearly blending in with the music.

This is different. Watching Claquesous work on something personal in the middle of the night. Sitting close enough to him to be touching him, but…not touching him. Montparnasse isn’t at all sure if it’s a good idea. But it’s late. And the flickering images and the droning music are drowning out the static in the back of his mind.

So he leans forward onto Claquesous’ desk until he can lean his chin on his arms, and watches his friend work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had this piece lying around for ages, but I suddenly had to finish it. It's...softer. Hope you liked it~


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